


these redefining moments

by sweetbun_trio



Series: stalwart and sincerest of knights [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Art, Books, Chores, Clothing, Dancing, Dessert & Sweets, Dreams, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluffcember, Future, Gift Giving, Hair Brushing, Holding Hands, Horseback Riding, Journey, Letters, Love Stories, Marriage Proposal, Music, Nature, Party, Post-Azure Moon, Promises, Recovery, Reminiscing, Reunions, Secrets, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a drink, Sunrises, Swimming, Tears, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27925630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetbun_trio/pseuds/sweetbun_trio
Summary: Something has changed in their relationship, in the moons leading up to and now after the end of the war. The sincerity he’d shown her in his request that they stick together in battle, as friends, followed by his baffling reaction to noticing the hints of makeup she had started wearing, and now this steady companionship he had initiated anytime she was in Fhirdiad.My Fluffcember collection. All prompt fills will be Ingrid and Sylvain. And all are part of the same narrative, taking place in the immediate post-war period after Azure Moon.You can find me onTwitterfor more, if you'd like to read them each day as I post them.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: stalwart and sincerest of knights [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092644
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this chapter are:
> 
> sharing a drink  
> reassurances  
> hand-holding  
> first kiss  
> reunited  
> sunrise

The party following Dimitri’s coronation lasts late into the night. Sylvain has been making the rounds, spending a little time catching up with all of his comrades, but his eyes are pulled back to Ingrid throughout the night. 

People are starting to leave for bed, or for somewhere else to celebrate. Soon he and the rest of Dimitri’s close friends will be the last of the stragglers remaining in the great hall. 

He watches Ingrid as she smiles and talks with Annette and Mercedes, laughing at something before making eye contact with him. She separates from the other women and approaches him, the flush of excitement and alcohol apparent high on her cheeks. 

“Hi, Sylvain,” she says, a soft expression in her green eyes, and Sylvain’s mouth goes dry. That’s been happening a lot lately.

Sylvain swallows. Instead of risking becoming a stuttering mess yet again he just says, “Hey.”

Ingrid might be having a bit too much fun, he thinks, enough that she’ll regret it in the morning. But he’s pleased to see her let loose for once, shrugging off her sense of duty and responsibility that she usually can’t seem to let go.

She’s holding an almost-full cup and he reaches out and lifts it from her hand. “Hmm, how about we share that,” he says. 

The punch everyone has been drinking is both very strong and very sweet. Sylvain is surprised they could scrounge up enough sugar to make something so sweet, as stretched thin as food stores are everywhere, this soon after the war’s end. 

“So,” Ingrid starts, taking the cup back for another sip before handing it back, “what happens now?”

“We find you some water and get you safely to bed,” Sylvain tells her, deliberately avoiding what he knows she’s really asking. He takes a large gulp of the punch. 

Ingrid doesn’t miss a beat. “No Sylvain, I mean, what will you do now that everything is more or less settled?” 

More or less. There is still plenty of work to do before Faerghus—Fodlan really—will enjoy stability. He knows Ingrid will want to be a part of that work. About to reach out and grasp her dream of knighthood.

They stand at the edge of the room, sharing the punch silently, lost in thought for a moment. 

Sylvain is so happy for her, even if he selfishly wants to hold onto her forever, even if he feels ugly jealousy knot his stomach at the fact that she stood up to her father so she can fulfill her ambitions, even if he should be headed to Gautier and his own father—dragging his feet the whole way. 

And yet…

“I’m going to stay for awhile in Fhirdiad,” he says. “I’m not the Margrave yet, after all.”

“I’m glad,” Ingrid says before grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze.

~

Ingrid worries her lower lip between her teeth while picking at her dinner. She glances at Sylvain across the table, to find him looking back. He’s _always_ looking at her lately, though.

“Hey,” Sylvain says, “hey.” He ducks his head to get into Ingrid’s line of sight as her gaze casts back down at the plate of herring and turnips sitting in front of her. Of course he could tell something was wrong. 

Nothing _was_ wrong though! Just...different. Regardless, something was bothering her and Sylvain was nothing if not perceptive. 

“Everything ok?” he asks. 

“Yes, everything is great!” Ingrid’s voice sounds insincere even in her own ears. “Everything is just fine,” she says, meeting his eyes in an effort to convince him. 

Something has changed in their relationship, in the moons leading up to and now after the end of the war. The sincerity he’d shown her in his request that they stick together in battle, as friends, followed by his baffling reaction to noticing the hints of makeup she had started wearing, and now this steady companionship he had initiated anytime she was in Fhirdiad. 

Maybe it hadn’t been about the makeup, Ingrid thinks. 

Sylvain’s voice brings her back to the present. “You aren’t eating. Something is definitely bugging you.”

“What are we? I mean, what am I to you?” she asks all at once, the words tumbling out before she can think. His eyes widen just a touch and then his brow furrows.

“You’re my...I mean, we’re...I’m...courting you. I thought?” Sylvain stutters. The look on his face almost makes Ingrid regret asking. But, she needed to know. 

“So we’re...together. There’s no one else.” She doesn’t mean for it to come out quite so terse, but it’s out there now. There’s no turning back.

“There never could be anyone else,” Sylvain says. “Not anymore. You’re the only one for me.” He pauses, and a heavy sigh deflates his broad shoulders. “If you don’t believe me yet, I understand. You probably want to be sure. But I’ll show you.” 

There is no hint of flirtation in his voice, every indication this is serious—possibly more serious than Sylvain has been about anything for a long time. And there is a tacit question in his eyes.

“Ok. It’s ok,” she says, trying to reassure him. She’s continued to keep him at arms length, even as her doubts about his feelings and intentions have begun to fade, but she did want to be sure. 

She reaches out her hand and it disappears in his.

~

Ingrid shifts, unclasping and reclasping Sylvain’s fingers. She had some down time with only reports to review from a recent mission, and he only had a long reading list of history and background on Sreng to work through, so they’ve arranged themselves in Sylvain’s study, curled up hand in hand.

“Is this uncomfortable?” Sylvain asks. “We can just sit together if, you know, you’re getting a cramp in your arm or something.” 

But he really hopes she doesn’t want to stop holding hands right now. And as she says, “No, this is nice. I just needed to readjust,” Sylvain exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Of course they have held hands before for various reasons. It isn’t totally new. He’d grabbed her hand so many times for different reasons: helping her climb trees, to tease her, to pull her back up after Felix beat her in a spar at the training grounds, comforting her once she finally allowed him to visit her after Glenn died. After all, they’ve known each other—been friends with each other—all of their lives. 

It’s still a new thing, Ingrid’s hand in his _like this,_ and Sylvain is surprised to find how much it means to him. 

And of course he’s also held hands with many other people. So many over the years he doesn’t even know how many, or remember all of them. It’s as natural and as commonplace as chatting someone up or sharing a meal. It should be no big deal. 

So it’s all the more significant, and so much more intimate now, when he’s holding Ingrid’s hand.

~

_“I’ll stay as long as I can,”_ Ingrid had said, the first time Sylvain attempted to talk through the feelings even he hadn’t yet made sense of.

He knew she couldn’t stay where he could see her forever. That was unrealistic, and selfish. And they were about to be separated for the longest period of time since those years following the Academy and before the reunion. But he still wants to keep her near.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye for a little while,” Sylvain says. He grasps her upper arms lightly, giving them a squeeze. They only have a few minutes before she needs to report for duty. 

Ingrid looks up into Sylvain’s eyes, warm and earnest. He swallows. His eyes flick down to her lips, then back. And then he’s tipping his head down toward her. Ingrid closes her eyes in anticipation of his lips upon hers, tilts her face up towards his. 

And he bumps into her nose, missing her lips and landing the kiss at the corner of her mouth. 

Ingrid snorts. Her eyes flutter open. 

“I’m gonna need a do-over,” he grumbles, although it’s with a smile. The romantic spell is broken, but then again, somehow this feels more right, somehow. 

“Of course,” Ingrid says. She cups his face in both palms. “I’m just going to hold on so you don’t go off course this time.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, grinning. And this time when he leans down, their lips meet. 

They’ve gone so slow, nurturing this tentative new dimension to their relationship like a tender sprout, and Sylvain has been patient even though he has wanted to kiss her for so long. He’s wanted to ever since he had been reduced to a stuttering mess that day in the Cathedral because he realized how long he had already been in love with Ingrid. 

Now that he’s kissing her, he doesn’t want to stop. He cautiously opens his mouth, hoping Ingrid will respond and his heart swells as she tilts her face and slides her hands to the back of his neck. Sylvain takes advantage of the new angle, trailing kisses along her jawline, below her ear, lower.

She sighs as he presses his lips to her neck and says, “I really do need to go, though.” Her voice is heavy with reluctance. 

“Yeah,” he breathes against her skin, before clearing his throat and straightening up. He says, more resolutely, “yes.”

Ingrid pecks him once more on the mouth, smoothes her hands down his sleeves, and gives him a lopsided smile before turning to go.

~

Ingrid turns the corner into the corridor her rooms are in, and nearly breaks into a run to reach her door. The journey back from Arianrhod had been a miserable one, wind howling as late-autumn sleet lashed over the fields surrounding Fhirdiad, and her battalion was overdue to return as it was.

But the promise of continuing from where she left off with a certain redhead before her departure ensured the journey was not too miserable.

Sylvain should be back from a trip to Gautier by now—her own arrival back in Fhirdiad having been delayed several days. The faster she gets to her rooms, the sooner she can see him. 

She reaches out one hand for the doorknob—

The door swings open before she can grasp it, and familiar arms sweep her up, lifting her feet off the ground. 

“How did you know I—” Ingrid says, her startled voice muffled by Sylvain’s sweater. He is so warm after the cold has seeped into her bones on such a long cold ride. He always is.

“Just lucky I guess,” he says. His steady, even heartbeat against her cheek is comforting and she snuggles closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. After a few moments he squeezes her a little tighter and says, “I missed you so much, Ing.”

Ingrid stretches up to kiss the soft spot just under his jaw. “I missed you too,” she says and presses her lips to his. 

She has no idea if she’s doing this right, but she’s been waiting weeks and feels as if she’ll burst if she doesn’t. He slides one hand up to tangle in hair and the other to the small of her back to pull her flush against him as he deepens the kiss. A soft, breathy moan slips from her mouth and Sylvain groans, then breaks the kiss. 

“What?” she asks, quickly jumping to conclusions. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No. Definitely not,” he says, a smirk pulling at his lips as he lets go of her. “But we should move this inside your room. Unless...you _want_ anyone who walks by to know how much you want me?”

Ingrid swats his arm and watches Sylvain’s smirk widen into a full smile that reaches all the way to his brown eyes. “No. I suppose you’re right,” she says and reaches again for her door.

~

Sylvain rolls over and pulls the blankets up over his eyes, blocking out the weak early morning light. It’s too early to be this bright, and too early for Ingrid to be mercilessly poking him already.

“What time is it?” he asks and groans.

“Seven,” Ingrid says, followed by “It’s not that early.” He refuses to give her the satisfaction of a response to that. “It’s _really_ not that early!” she repeats, laughing. 

Sure, he thinks, ok. Not that early for Ingrid who is used to waking up before sunrise every day. He’s been enjoying the pleasures of sleeping until a decent hour since he isn’t required to be up for training or battle preparations every morning anymore.

“It’s early if the sun has barely started rising,” he protests even as he gives up and pushes the covers back down, squinting against the brightness. 

“Will you just come here, please?” 

Sylvain’s eyes adjust to the light and he can see Ingrid standing at the window. Her hair is sleep-mussed and backlit by the glow, with dust motes from the curtain swirling around her. It takes his breath away momentarily before he puts his feet on the threadbare rug. He pads over to her, shivering as steps onto the cold stone floor. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she murmurs as he slides his arms around her waist. She cut her hair even shorter in the back recently and he loves how it accentuates the long column of her exposed neck. He kisses her softly there before looking over her shoulder. 

Outside, Fhirdiad and the fields beyond are covered in a shimmering blanket of fresh snow. The first snowfall of this first winter of the new peace. 

“It is beautiful,” Sylvain breathes out. And it is. So pure and undisturbed, he feels a twinge of sadness that soon it will be trampled underfoot and reduced to dirty slush on the cobblestones in town. 

At least no blood will be spilled upon it in battle this winter. It’s a bittersweet thought and he redirects his mind back to the moment. 

“Let’s go out and enjoy it,” Sylvain says, adding, “later.” 

Ingrid twists around in his arms and l leans back, letting his hands cradle her. He bends to kiss her forehead and then down to whisper in her ear, “But for now let’s get back in bed.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this chapter are:
> 
> a journey  
> artwork  
> recovery  
> dreams  
> swimming  
> music  
> dessert  
> hair styling  
> a fancy party  
> gift-giving

The heat from the roaring fire inside the inn warms Ingrid after hours of riding south from Fhirdiad. She’s traveling with Sylvain, Felix, Dimitri, and Annette to Garreg Mach to take part in Establishment Day festivities.

The celebrations will also be in honor of the new Archbishop, and to make up for the missed Millennium Festival the year before. 

Ingrid heads right for the bar once inside. Sylvain follows and embraces her from behind, resting his chin on top of her head as they look over the board where the day’s menu choices and prices are chalked. 

“What looks good?” she asks Sylvain. 

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Oh, you know what I like.” He dips his face to peck her cheek and says, right next to Ingrid’s ear, “Surprise me,” before turning to go.

He joins the others where they are getting situated in a large booth, so as not to draw attention to Dimitri. He’s insisted upon making this journey with them, balking at the idea of some sort of Royal procession to the Monastery.

She quickly gets the innkeepers attention and orders a round of ale for all five of them before turning around as well. At the table, Annette is wearing a triumphant smile, Felix an annoyed frown, and Dimitri just looks quietly amused, while Sylvain rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. Ingrid places the mugs of ale on the table before sitting down beside Sylvain. 

“What’s—” Ingrid begins to ask suspiciously before Annette simply cannot contain whatever it is she needs to say a second longer.

“Ooooooooooh, Ingrid, I’m so happy for you and Sylvain,” she says, blue-green eyes alight. Sylvain puts his arm around Ingrid’s shoulders and she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says. Then she looks at Felix. “What are you so upset about?”

“Felix is sore because he lost a bet,” Dimitri says when Felix isn’t immediately forthcoming. And then when Ingrid must look confused, he goes on, “A bet about whether you and Sylvain were, ah, going together.”

“Oh,” Ingrid says. They haven't _hidden_ it. They just haven't _announced_ it. Everyone was bound to find out during this trip.

“How much did you lose in the bet?” Sylvain asks Felix.

“The price of dinner for all of you tonight,” Felix says. “And I’m not sore, I’m just not looking forward to Annette recounting this story to everyone for the rest of our lives.” Annette makes a small sound of offense. “Also...congratulations,” Felix adds sincerely.

Sylvain laughs. “Well, let’s get that food order in then. I’m starving.”

Felix gets up, a small smile now softening his features. “What does everyone want, the fish or the pheasant?”

~

Sylvain wishes he can see what Ingrid can, he really does. She’s admiring the progress made in the restoration of the Cathedral’s stained glass artwork and from what she’s described the new work sounds beautiful.

But to him it’s all a blur.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid says quietly. He stops squinting (it’s no use anyway) and looks toward her. “Can you not...are you not able to see it?”

He scoffs. “What? What is that supposed to mean?” He averts his eyes, turning his face down and away from her. 

It’s embarrassing: the fact that he was too vain to get glasses, and then too proud once it truly started to become a problem to admit it. Ingrid turns toward him and reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers into his. 

“Look at me, Sylvain.” He finally looks back at her, for just a moment. “You need glasses,” she says. 

“Yeah. I...” he says, trailing off. He really doesn’t want to see the pitying, disappointed look she must have for him, but forces himself to raise his head again. 

“How long has it been like this?” Ingrid asks. He sees only concern and care in her green eyes.

He pauses, actually thinking as he tries to remember, then says, “It started when we were here at the academy…” pauses to think some more. “No, actually before. But it’s gotten much worse recently.” All of his tricks to get by have started to fail as his eyesight deteriorates.

“No wonder you struggled so much with ranged weapons,” Ingrid says. 

Sylvain laughs. “I can’t believe that’s what you think of first!” he says. 

Ingrid’s eyes go wide suddenly, an expression of disbelief spreading across her features. “Wait! When you...came onto my granny? The scarecrow? Was this why as well?”

“Ehhh, maybe. I guess. It’s hard to remember,” Sylvain says and rubs the back of his neck nervously. 

“Well, you’re going to get glasses now, right?” she asks. And when he hesitates, chewing the corner of his mouth, she says, “There is nothing wrong with wearing glasses, Sylvain.”

“They won’t ruin my dashing good looks?” Sylvain asks. Humor has never failed him yet, right?

“No!” Ingrid says in exasperation. “I think you’ll look quite handsome with them. Very distinguished. But more importantly, you will be able to see. Just think of how it will feel to finally see all this!” 

She twirls around, gesturing to the Cathedral. And Sylvain thinks if the Monastery can recover from this war, if Fodlan can change and grow, he can too.

~

All around the Monastery, there are signs of recovery, and Ingrid catalogs them as she strolls down to the town of Garreg Mach with Felix and Sylvain.

The last of the rubble has been cleared, making way for craftspeople to reconstruct the destroyed masonry. And the grounds have been landscaped again, with neatly trimmed snow-covered hedges and lawns.

But most of all, the people have come back. 

It’s bustling with many more people than usual. A holiday market has been set up, with vendors gathering in the town square to sell a variety of gifts, food, and drink to all those who have come for Establishment Day and Saint Cichol Day. The aromas of smoked meat and warm wine waft around Ingrid and her mouth waters. 

“Look,” Sylvain says, turning her to face the direction in which he was looking. “Isn’t that the food cart you missed so much?”

Ingrid searches the crowd, and there she is, the woman who Ingrid remembers from her time at the Academy with her cart and familiar selection of delicious grilled foods. She can barely believe it.

“Well, go on. You have something to live for again.” Felix says behind her, poking fun at how distraught Ingrid had been the day she had asked Byleth’s advice about how to cope with the food cart disappearing during the war.

Sylvain strides forward ahead of her and she jogs to catch up. “One of each of what you have on the menu today, please,” he says and digs for the gold to pay for it all. 

The woman hands him several skewers of meat and fish with vegetables. She notices Ingrid and does a slight double take.

“It’s good to see you back,” she says. “I just started business up again. Figured this was a good opportunity for it, what with everyone here for the fest.”

“Yes,” Ingrid says. “Welcome back. And thank you!” She hands the woman a few more gold as a tip.

She, Sylvain and Felix find a table next to one of the fires in the seating area that has been set up for the festival. It’s cozy and warm, even in the crisp air of a clear winter day. Her friends each enjoy a little bit of the food, leaving most of it to Ingrid, who takes her time savoring all of it. They fall into a comfortable silence.

“It’s strange,” Felix says thoughtfully after a few moments. “To be doing something so...normal. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel normal again.”

“I don’t feel ‘normal,’ and I don’t think that should be the goal,” Sylvain says, “but I do feel like things are getting better, which is all we can ask for, because we have a long way to go.” He squeezes Ingrid’s knee under the table.

Ingrid pauses, chewing and swallowing as she considers, before saying, “The world will be different, even as it starts to feel normal, but I think that’s ok.”

~

Sylvain wakes in the night.

It’s because of the strange bed, and being back at the Monastery. Even after several nights he’s not used to it. He rolls over to face Ingrid and to try to get back to sleep. 

She must be dreaming, murmuring in her sleep, and Sylvain is not sure whether he should wake her or not. Not sure if the dreams are good ones, or if her mind has brought her to some ravaged battlefield. 

“Nnnn…nnno,” Ingrid whimpers, and he reaches for her cautiously, gently, his hand brushing a stray lock of golden hair from her forehead. She still startles, just a little, green eyes wide for a moment before blinking several times as if to clear away the dream. 

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” she says. She rubs her eyes and pulls the blanket back up as she turns on her side. 

“No,” he says and moves closer to her, sliding his arms under her head and around her waist. She fits so perfectly in his arms. “At least, I don’t think it was you. I woke up, and then I noticed you were dreaming. And it didn’t seem like a good dream.”

“Yes. It was the usual sort of bad dream,” she says, warm breath against his collarbone. Her heartbeat is slowing to normal, deep breaths syncing with his. 

Sylvain nods in response. He knows.

~

Snow is falling softly around Ingrid as she slides into the water.

She sighs, relaxing. She had undressed furtively, still not used to baring her body, and the water now obscured her form enough for her comfort. The bottom of the hotsprings-fed pool is smooth stone and she sinks into the water up to her neck, careful to keep her hair from getting wet and freezing in the frigid air. 

Sylvain moves toward her like a flame, and Ingrid melts into his arms. Words are unnecessary as they find each another's lips. The slip and slide of skin on skin in the hot water is overwhelming, but it’s Sylvain’s hands that set Ingrid on fire as he caresses her body. She clings to him until their fingers wrinkle and Ingrid feels feverish. Her skin tingles as snowflakes land in her hair and on her shoulders.

She had followed Sylvain outside the Monastery, past Garreg Mach town, down a mountain path, and into the forest, until finally the path opened up onto a clearing where steam rose off a small pool. All he would tell her was that it was a ‘surprise.’ He’d told her to wear warm clothes and grabbed her hand as he slung a cloth bag over his shoulder. 

Sylvain reaches for that bag, laughing, as they pull themselves up and out of the water. The air hits Ingrid’s overheated skin and she inhales sharply, coughing and hissing through laughter. Sylvain drapes a fluffy towel over her shoulders. She wraps herself in it, drying as quickly as possible before pulling on her clothes. 

Peeking out of the corner of eye, she sees Sylvain shiver, his back turned to her as he dresses. Ingrid gawks, captivated by the lines of his body as he pulls his shirt over his head. 

She only realizes she’s staring when he catches her looking.

~

The final notes of Dorothea’s voice ring through the Cathedral, resonating among the newly reconstructed arches and dying away. A round of applause resounds as the diva takes a bow, before exiting stage right and into the arms of Byleth, in full Archbishop regalia.

Ingrid hangs back afterward, Sylvain hanging back at her side. She has not gotten the chance yet since they arrived at Garreg Mach to visit with her old friend. Dorothea had been too busy rehearsing in the days leading up to the concert.

“Congratulations!” she says. “What a lovely performance.”

“Thank you!” Dorothea says graciously, before her deep green eyes narrow and her lips curl in a sweet smile at the sight of Sylvain’s hand in Ingrid’s. “So it _is_ true.”

“They say seeing is believing,” Sylvain says, trying and failing not to grin in the face of Dorothea’s reaction. “But please, accept my sincere compliments after that performance. Truly, the only thing more stunning than your beauty is your voice, Dorothea.” 

“You’ve wised up, finally, and yet you haven’t changed a bit,” Dorothea says, not ruffled in the least. “Now shoo, let me have some time one-on-one with my Ingrid.”

“Alright, alright,” Sylvain says, hands up. “I’ll see you later, then.” He plants a kiss on Ingrid’s forehead before winking at Dorothea and retreating. Ingrid hears him call for Felix and Annette before Dorothea speaks again.

“Soooooooo,” Dorothea sings, raising one perfect eyebrow. 

“I know what you're going to say,” Ingrid says. 

“What am I going to say?” Dorothea asks, obviously trying to suppress a giggle. 

“You're going to ask me ‘why Sylvain?’ Say I can do better. That he's—”

Dorothea interrupts, stopping her spiral, “No, Ingrid.” Mouth hanging open, Ingrid goes silent, as Dorothea warmly and sincerely goes on, “What I was going to say is that it’s plain to see how much Sylvain cares for you. Adores you. It’s impossible not to see it. That boy is in love.”

“I—” Ingrid splutters, having no idea how to respond to that. Is Sylvain in love with her? Is this what it’s like to be in love? Is she in love with Sylvain?

“You are one very lucky woman,” Dorothea says. “Now, tell me all about it. I want to know all the details.” She links her arm with Ingrid’s and steers her toward one of the more private alcoves.

~

Sylvain sits back as dishes are cleared from the banquet tables set up in the Reception Hall for the Establishment Day Feast. People are getting up again to choose desserts from the buffet, and he watches Ingrid coming back with a couple plates.

The first several courses were delicious. He can’t remember the last time he sat down to such a satisfying meal (definitely not since before the war, he knows). He hasn’t had the chance to eat so much in so long, and he’s overdone it too much to actually want dessert. 

He’s not surprised, however, that Ingrid saved room. It really is cute how much she can eat. Sylvain used to poke fun at her, warning that she’d swipe all the good bits of food for herself, or that watching her eat was weirdly soothing. 

Knowing what she endured as a child during the famine in Galatea it is soothing, in a way, to see her enjoy her food. And Ingrid always eats meticulously, methodically even, slicing each bite of food carefully and cleaning her plate conscientiously. No one could ever accuse Ingrid of wasting food. 

He watches her cut an egg custard tart in half, then divide each half in half creating four perfect quarters, before spearing one with her fork. 

“Mmmmmmm,” Ingrid hums melodically. “Sylvain. You have to try this.”

He is about to protest, about to groan that he’s too stuffed, but the look of sweet rapture on her face sways him. Her tongue peeks out to swipe at a rare stray crumb stuck to her bottom lip. Perfect pink on pink. So even though Sylvain is already too full, he figures one bite of dessert won’t hurt, opening his mouth for the forkful of pastry and custard she holds out and leaning toward her. 

The tart has a light, flaky crust and the egg custard is so delicately smooth, like silk. Sylvain savors the taste, closing his eyes a moment. When he opens them, Ingrid is still looking at him, pulling the fork out of her mouth. 

“Good?” she asks, already ready with the last quarter of the tart at his lips.

Sylvain closes his mouth around the last bite. “The best,” he says with his mouth full.

“Good.” Ingrid laughs and reaches out to swipe her thumb at a bit of custard on his upper lip. “Everything tastes better shared with someone special.”

~

Ingrid’s reflection stares back at her from the mirror.

Her makeup is done, shining subtly in pale shades and shimmer. She is almost ready for the ball, wearing a flowing deep green dress and soft slippers. She once would have felt painfully out of place like this, she thinks. 

“Hmmmm,” she murmurs, twirling around to admire the way the gown falls over her shoulders and clings to her hips. But she isn’t sure whether to do her hair in the normal way or try something new. Turning back around to where she started, she looks at Sylvain in the glass. 

Sylvain makes eye contact from behind her in the mirror, and an expression Ingrid cannot parse passes over his features. Over the years, she has learned to read his face: the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s truly happy, how he masks his bad moods with fake smiles, the sharp edges of anger and frustration, and the pinched look of guilt. 

But right now, she has no idea. If she had to make a guess she would say ‘reverence,’ which might be the most un-Sylvain emotion she can think of.

He comes to stand behind her and cards the loose ends of her hair through his hands, brushing it out with his fingers. “What are you thinking about right now?” she asks.

He starts to answer quickly, like the words cannot be contained. “How much—” he blurts out and cuts himself off, face turning red and eyes wide, before going on with “—I love your hair like this. When you let it do, y’know, what it wants to do, uh, naturally...it’s just so beautiful on its own. Like you!”

Sylvain begins to mess with his own hair, artfully tousling it so it looks like he doesn’t care what it looks like. So that it looks how it always looks. 

Ingrid makes a decision. She turns and presses her lips to his cheek, rises up on her toes to say, “I love you too.”

He freezes for a moment, as if he can’t believe what he just heard, like his ears must be playing tricks on him, before the mystery emotion makes another appearance. 

And then Sylvain takes her face in his palms and kisses her harder than she’s ever been kissed.

~

The Garreg Mach Reception Hall glows with a hundred twinkling lights for the ball. It is the eve of St. Cichol’s Day, it’s snowing, and the mood is very merry.

Sylvain can hardly believe this evening is real. He holds the woman he loves (and she loves him!) in his arms on the dance floor. They sway and twirl past the other dancers. Sylvain knows he has a dumb dopey grin on his face as they pass Mercedes with Dedue, whom he gives a small nod. 

The waltz ends, and Sylvain pulls Ingrid closer as the music dies away. “I love you,” he says. 

He has lost count of how many times he’s told Ingrid he loves her tonight. Keeping track is hard when his head feels as effervescent as the sparkling Magdred Kirsch wine Dorothea smuggled from the Monastery’s stores. Sylvain is not sure if he’s more drunk on Ingrid’s confession or the actual alcohol. All he knows is he will never tire of hearing those words.

A hush falls over the hall as the musicians pause between songs. “I love you, too,” Ingrid says, a soft amused smile on her lips. A few couples leave the floor for the next dance, while others take their places. 

“Another dance?” Sylvain asks, watching her as she tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

“I could use a break...if you agree,” she says. 

Taking her hand, he leads them out of the center of the room, making for the refreshments. Swooping up two fizzy drinks, he hands one to her as she chooses some canapes. Sylvain looks out over the dance floor as the music swells and coughs on his sip of wine. 

“Is that… Felix with Annette? Dancing? Our Felix?” he says. He squints, making sure it is actually their friend Felix with the tiny redhead in a dark blue gown. Ingrid anticipates his move to cup his hand around his mouth and call out over the music and conversation, grabbing his arm and quickly interlocking their fingers. 

“Sylvain,” she says, “let them be and see what happens.” She turns his face toward her and in response to his mock-offended pout, reaches up to run her finger over his pinched brow. “Smooth it out,” she says, laughing.

He looks down at her. “Only on one condition,” he says. And then,“Tell me again.” 

“I love you,” Ingrid says without hesitation, and is it just the light or is she glowing?

“I love you, too.” He wants to shout it loud so everyone, from the dance floor to the Cathedral to the market, can hear.

~

Ingrid wakes up when Sylvain buries his face into the back of her hair, long arms pulling her closer to his chest and legs curling up underneath her thighs. She thinks he’s still asleep but then he speaks, voice low and rough, hot breath on her nape, “What time is it?”

“Who cares?” Ingrid replies. “It’s St. Cichol’s Day.” She turns onto her back and his hand trails over her, coming to rest on her stomach.

“Oh thank Goddess,” Sylvain says. “We can snuggle in bed and you can open your gift.”

“We can open each other’s gifts,” Ingrid amends. She starts to sit up but Sylvain gets up faster, digging in his stuff to find a small package. “Yours is right there, on the desk,” she tells him, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. He returns with both, crossing his legs under him and facing her. “You go first,” Ingrid says, setting his present for her down on the blanket. 

Sylvain opens the case, carefully takes out the pair of glasses and unfolds the temples, holding them as if he’s afraid he’ll break them. 

“You’ll still need to go to an optician to get your prescription and have the lenses made and put in them, and I couldn’t afford that, but I thought these would suit you when I happened to see them and—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Sylvain says. He places the glasses on his face and flashes his brightest smile at her. “How do I look?”

Ingrid was right when she assured Sylvain he would look handsome in glasses. The frames are horn-rimmed, with a rectangular shape, and temples made out of brushed bronze. “Like I said, very distinguished.”

“I _am_ looking forward to being able to see,” Sylvain says. “Let’s go see a play when the theaters reopen in Fhirdiad.”

“I’d like that,” Ingrid says.

They share a kiss and then Sylvain takes off the frames, closing them and placing them gently back in their case. “Thanks, Ing.” 

Ingrid accepts her gift from Sylvain, tearing the wrapping off to find a beautiful pair of felted wool gloves. They are teal with embroidered maroon detail at the wrist. She pulls them on and can feel that they are probably waterproof and extremely warm, dense and slightly oily.

“Your hands are always cold when you get back from patrol,” Sylvain says. “I hope you like the color, I had them made in Gautier teal and maroon. So, you can think of me while you’re up there flying.”

Ingrid is almost speechless. She’s never been one for flashy gifts, having no use for them. And of course Sylvain would know her preference for more practical, high-quality, nice things she’ll use every day.

“Thank you,” she whispers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this chapter are:
> 
> horseback riding  
> bed sharing  
> practice and preparation  
> secrets  
> chores  
> reminiscing  
> promises  
> letters  
> dancing

As soon as they leave the mountains and reach the plains of Charon, Sylvain abandons their easy cadence and urges Verity to a faster gait. He looks back, a silent request to Ingrid as she follows on Turnip, and she quickly catches up to him. 

Sylvain whoops as they ride across the fields. Galloping hooves pound, little puffs of snow flying behind them as they approach the river crossing to Galatea. The sky is low and leaden gray, the heavy air dampening any sounds and signaling the high probability of snow again overnight. They had split up from Felix and Annette around midday as the mountains began to smooth into rolling foothills, with plans for a stop to visit Ingrid’s family before returning to Fhirdiad. 

They make it to the river fast and Ingrid pulls up on her reins first. Sylvain slows to a relaxed pace as well, and they approach the crossing at a trot. 

“Over that next low hill and the house will be in sight,” Ingrid says. They stop for a moment to water the horses at the river’s edge, before pressing on to Galatea Manor.

~

Ingrid wakes in the night.

Well, she hadn’t really been completely asleep yet despite being exhausted from the day, with the anxiety from bringing Sylvain home buzzing in her mind. But she’s fully awake now at the sight of Sylvain taking the utmost care not to let the door make a sound as he closes it. 

He crosses the room and crawls under her blankets, instantly surrounding her with his size and warmth. Ingrid has gotten used to this sensation every night they spend together. Most nights now. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t get caught,” Sylvain murmurs in her ear, knowing exactly what she was thinking. 

When her father passively aggressively informed them that the guest room was all ready for Sylvain, Ingrid had been exasperated. However, Sylvain had not objected, just easily agreed and given Ingrid an exaggerated ‘oh well!’ look. She should have expected this.

“So you’ll be relying on me to wake up early to make sure you get back to the guest room,” Ingrid says.

“Mmmmmhm,” Sylvain says, and she can feel his smirk against her neck, “the only time your regimented sleep schedule comes in handy, so you know I’ve got to take advantage of it.”

He begins to kiss the back of her neck, and then her shoulder, nosing the collar of her night shirt to the side. His palm moves down to rest on her belly, pulling her snug against him. Ingrid twists and turns over to face him, tangling their legs together. Sylvain slides his hand down to squeeze her ass, letting out a groan, which she muffles with her own mouth on his. 

“I thought you weren’t going to get caught,” Ingrid says after a lingering kiss. She tries to put some firmness into the admonition, but largely fails, sighing at the way he slips his fingers under the hem of her shirt and then up her back. 

Sylvain seems satisfied that he’s teased her enough, though. She can feel him relaxing, holding her loosely, as he drops off to sleep. 

Matching her breaths to his and inhaling his comforting scent, Ingrid falls asleep soon after.

~

Sylvain and Ingrid had stayed in Galatea until her birthday.

By the end of that week they had their fill of the Count hinting at having a discussion about their future together. And yet, in the weeks since returning to Fhirdiad thoughts of a future—of forever, if he were being completely honest—with Ingrid were often on Sylvain’s mind.

During the war, his view of her had suddenly shifted; his old way of seeing her swept away. He had seen her—and himself—from a whole new angle. And in the year since then, there had been a few similar shifts in his perception. Every time a new layer was revealed, he could appreciate Ingrid better, fall in love with her all over again in a new way.

So he had begun to prepare. 

First, the ring. Or was a ring the best choice? He had thought of her hands, so tough and strong from handling a lance every day. Working hands. Finally he decided on a simple silver ring with delicately carved designs. And he had picked out a matching chain so she could wear it around her neck.

Next, how would he propose? He knew Ingrid would not want a grand gesture. He would wait for the right moment, making it all the more important to know what he would say. 

“I want you to be my wife.” He tries out the words one day, while sitting at his desk, but bristles at the image the word ‘wife’ brings up in his mind’s eye in relation to Ingrid. The connotation is wrong. 

“Will you marry me?” he says, to himself in the mirror, on another morning. But the institution of marriage—of a wife with a husband and its expectations of obedience and family—feels too limiting. 

He knew he felt this way. And he thinks Ingrid feels the same.

~

Ingrid knows that Sylvain is up to something.

One day last week, she returned from patrol to find him looking at something while sitting at her dressing table. He had hastily replaced the item, but not before she caught a glimpse of silver. It looked like it might have been the ring she sometimes wore when she wasn’t working. It had been her mother’s engagement ring. 

She could tell there was something going on by the way he had been flustered and tongue-tied for several uncomfortable moments after she caught him. But she didn’t pry or accuse.

And then just the other day, she surprised him, walking in while he was...talking to himself. She had only heard the very end of what he was saying before he had abruptly fallen silent, but what she had heard made her think. He’d said, “...do me the honor—” and then he again acted uncharacteristically awkward once he cut himself off.

Ingrid could fit the clues together. She knew he was thinking about proposing marriage. She kept the secret to herself. 

She had done this in the past. On that day that now felt so long ago, during the war when he had run away after sticking his foot in his mouth at the end of meandering conversation in the Cathedral. Even before that when she herself wasn’t ready to acknowledge her feelings, she had grabbed onto their mutual declarations of friendship like a life raft mere minutes after making a pact with Sylvain to stick together on the battlefield.

Ingrid wants to stay by Sylvain’s side, just like they had promised that day. The love that she feels cannot be simplified and fit into any box that marriage or even duty could impose. In the cautious way he’s preparing for the next step, in the way he is proceeding through their whole courtship, Ingrid can see that Sylvain feels the same. 

He—no, they. They will find the right moment. For now she will keep his secret.

~

Ingrid is getting ready to leave again.

“I think you can take a break,” Sylvain says. All of her armor and gear is spread out on the floor to check over, clean, and polish. And she ignores him, even after he takes off his shirt and lounges on the bed. Suggestively.

This is going to require more drastic action. 

Sylvain gets up and kneels behind the chair Ingrid is sitting in, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She tries to shrug him off but he hugs her tighter. “Don’t you have time for a break?” he asks. 

“I have to report tomorrow morning, so no,” Ingrid says. “I still have to get my weapons ready after this is done.” She doggedly continues polishing the pauldron she’s working on. 

He’ll have to escalate further.

“I will help you with the weapons! No, with all of it. We can get it all done in half the time.” Sylvain kisses the spot right behind her ear. She shivers. Good. He’s getting somewhere. “If,” he says, “and only if, you take a break with me right now.”

“Just” —Ingrid pauses for a moment, roughly buffing the metal, before going on— “let me finish this, and then I’ll be done with the armor.”

“Ok!” Sylvain holds his hands up, sitting back on his heels. He stands up and gets back in the bed, propping himself up on his elbow so he can see her. “I’ll be right over here, love.”

She finishes polishing the steel to a bright shine, then sighs and sets it down with the other pieces. Wiping her hands on a clean cloth, Ingrid stalks over to the bed and climbs up and onto Sylvain, straddling his hips. Her hands land on his chest and push him down into the pillows, fingers splayed over the bare skin. 

“Alright you have my attention,” she says.

He looks up into her intense green eyes, which rapidly darken as she leans down toward him. “Holy mother of Macuil,” he says under his breath. 

She starts laughing as she collapses against him and he catches her in his arms.

~

True to his word, Sylvain helps Ingrid finish cleaning her weapons. Each of them take one lance and get to work in the knights’ hall of the castle. There is an easy companionship between them, in the time they have left before being separated for another few weeks.

As Ingrid finishes oiling and polishing, Sylvain pauses and says, “Remember when we got in trouble, that one time at the Academy, when the Professor made us clean and organize all the training weapons? And it took us hours!”

“Oh? You mean when _you_ got us _both_ in trouble?” Ingrid says. 

“What?” Sylvain says. He laughs nervously, and then picks the lance back up. “Well. I mean…” —a sigh— “I guess you’re right. You were covering for me and my mess.”

She sets the lance she was working on aside and looks at him. His crimson hair has fallen forward, obscuring his face, while he rubs at the already clean blade. Finally, he stops and lifts his face to her, chagrined. 

“Yes,” she says. And she was. Back then she had still been so sure that she was caring for him by apologizing for him, and making things right when he offended. She even thought that he would not be able to get along without her if she didn’t help him. “Byleth offered me some of the best advice I’ve ever been given that day. She told me not to keep enabling you, and protecting you...in that way.”

“What?” Sylvain says again. “But you were so angry with her. We commiserated together about how unfair the punishment was.” 

“At the time, I was mad. I didn’t want to believe her. I didn’t think she knew anything about it. That it was none of her business,” Ingrid said. “But the more I thought about what she said... it took me a while, but the more I thought about it, I recognized she was right.”

Sylvain looks as if he’s a thousand miles away as he digests this revelation. “She was right,” he finally says, “I don’t know if I ever would have changed if you had kept insulating me from the consequences of my actions. I’m happy that you—I don’t know—that you gave me the chance to learn for myself.”

“I’m happy, too,” Ingrid says. She holds out her hand for the other lance and he passes it to her.

~

“You’re quiet,” Ingrid says as they sit down to a late supper.

Sylvain is still in a reflective state of mind from their earlier conversation. He spears a carrot and takes a bite as he watches Ingrid happily eat hunks of pickled rabbit meat, one of her (many) favorite foods.

“I’m just...still thinking about what you said before,” he says, chewing the carrot slowly. A storm blows around his mind with thoughts like lightning flashing. He sets his fork down and reaches into his pocket to turn the ring over in fingers, sliding it along the chain. 

“About learning from consequences?” she asks. 

“Yeah, about taking responsibility,” he says. “You were the one who always had such a sense of duty, but I have a duty too. To my friends, and to everyone when I become Margrave.” Because, despite all his rebellion against the cage he had seen himself in before, in the end Sylvain was still here preparing to take on that mantle. 

And even marry the woman he loves, if he ever finds the right moment to propose.

A soft expression settles over Ingrid’s face. “Of course,” she says.

Sylvain lets go of the chain and withdraws his hand from his pocket, laying it palm up on the table. Ingrid places her hand in his.

“Ingrid, I promise I’ll never put you in a situation where you feel like you have to apologize for me, or clean up after me,” he says. “Never again. I love you too much. And I’m not worth that.”

“I know you won’t.” Ingrid says. “And anyway like I said, I wouldn’t do that anymore, because I love you.”

“Promise me, Ingrid,” he says. “Promise me that you won’t.”

“I thought you said I would never find myself in that situation,” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “But I promise.”

~

The captain drops another letter from Sylvain in front of Ingrid in the mess hall and she snatches it up. It’s addressed to her in the handwriting Sylvain uses when he needs to be neat. She smiles as she breaks the seal and scans over his more familiar casual scrawl quickly, with only a few minutes to both eat and read.

Too soon, her fellow knights are getting up as their captain finishes his meal and reminds them of their report times and mission details. Ahead of them is a windy and wet ride over the newly plowed fields surrounding Arianrhod, toward the Brionac Plateau and and the western peninsula of the former Empire, to begin one of the rebuilding and peacekeeping programs they have been undertaking over the past several moons for the Crown. 

Once they arrive in Nuvelle, Ingrid hurries to their assigned bunks, eagerly reopening and unfolding the letter as she flops down on the blankets. It’s not long, but she takes her time to cherish every word.

_Ingrid,_

_I love you. I can’t wait to see you (and hear you, and feel you)_ —at this point he had drawn a tiny smiling face, one of the eyes a curved line to indicate a wink— _again, but I will patiently await your return. By the time you get this it should only be another week, I hope._

_Yesterday I talked to Dimitri about reaching out to some of the border clans in Sreng. My father will be furious but he’s the past. I want to think forward into the future, so I might as well get a head start._

Ingrid is surprised by this news, but pleased that Sylvain has decided to pursue a goal so important to him. She moves on to read the last paragraph.

_Not much else to report. I did get my glasses though! Still getting used to them, but I will say it’s amazing to see all the little things I couldn’t before._

_I love you._ —he had drawn a little heart next to it this time.

_Sylvain_

Ingrid carefully refolds the letter and tucks it into her pack with the others, retrieving her own stationery, ink and quill to write back.

~

Music drifts through the open windows, joyful townsfolk taking to the streets to sing on the first evening of Harpstring Moon. Sylvain gently nudges Ingrid, whose arm lies draped over his chest and head resting on his shoulder as they enjoy their first day back together.

Ingrid stirs, sitting up and gazing toward the darkening sky outside as Sylvain swings his legs out of bed and puts his feet on the floor. The eastern sky is the clearest perfect deep blue he’s ever seen, like Faerghan cobalt glass. 

Sylvain stands and holds his hand out to her, guiding her into a closed position, his right hand coming to hold the curve of her back. Ingrid intertwines her right hand with his left, brings her left hand to his shoulder. 

They turn slowly for several moments, just swaying with the music.

“I wish this moment would never end,” Ingrid says. She rests her face on his shoulder, and he drops her hand to wrap his other arm around her, pulling her closer. 

Several more moments pass, and Sylvain only has any idea of the actual passage of time because of the dark falling around them as the sun dips below the horizon. The singers pick up the melody of a new song down below in the street. 

“Unfortunately I can’t stop time,” he says, “but…” He is not nervous. He only trails off because he wants to memorize the way this feels. Her arms around his neck. Their bodies so easily fitted together.

Sylvain takes a calm, deep breath and reaches into his pocket, slipping his finger through the ring and taking it and the chain out. “Would you stay with me?” he pauses as Ingrid lifts her face and meets his gaze. “Through all time, even if we can’t hang onto one moment?”

“Sylvain,” she says. “Is this a— Are you—?”

“Yes.” He unclasps the chain and lets the ring slide off before taking her hand. “I love you, and I’m ready to stay with you until the end. You’re it for me, Ingrid.”

She doesn’t say anything for some time, just looks at the ring on her finger, and then back at him. “I love you,” she says. 

Now is the moment, he realizes. “Every way I could think of to ask it doesn’t fully encompass my feelings, so I’m just going to say I want to be your partner in everything. I want to be on your team, and I want you on mine. Will you join me?” 

“Yes!” Ingrid says and Sylvain lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Here, I got a chain for the ring so—” he’s cut off by her kiss as she surges up to press her mouth against his. Her hand is warm, fingers slipping up into the end of the hair at the nape of his neck. Sylvain leans down and pulls her to him. 

It’s dark in the bedroom now, and as their lips part, Sylvain clasps the necklace around Ingrid’s neck. The singing outside comes to an end momentarily and the singers begin again. Ingrid tucks her face back down against his chest under his chin. Sylvain holds her close in the dark as they continue dancing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts for this chapter: 
> 
> clothing  
> in nature  
> tears  
> books and stories  
> wedding  
> future

Everyone Ingrid knows (except Sylvain) is fussing over everything about the wedding. From the food to the flowers, and all the rest, it feels like she hasn’t had a minute to herself for months.

But the worst part is the dress.

“Don’t let anyone choose for you,” Sylvain says when she complains, telling him what Annette, and Mercedes when she was in town, and the seamstress have each suggested. 

Sylvain shrugs. It’s easy for him to say, and to brush it off, Ingrid thinks. He’s not the one in the room with Annette and her earnest shining blue eyes looking up at him as she squeals over the idea of adding some ruffles here or there. Ingrid hadn’t wanted a big deal for the wedding, but even the small ceremony they decided on is making her regret not taking Sylvain up on his offer to elope and avoid all of it.

Ingrid keeps insisting she wants a more practical garment, free of ornamentation and embellishments that serve no function or purpose. She would like to wear clothing more in line with what she does everyday, who she is, even on her wedding day. She can’t bear the thought of putting all this time and money into something she will only wear one time.

In a letter to Dorothea she mentions the battles over the gown, and her friend immediately travels to Fhirdiad. 

Dorothea reminds the seamstress whose wedding it is, her demeanor somehow still gentle with righteous anger behind it, while Byleth watches her. “I’ll have to have her talk to Seteth about letting me off of wearing the full Archbishop get-up for even minor ceremonies and services,” she whispers, leaning toward Ingrid, who stifles a laugh. 

In the end Dorothea’s has Ingrid’s eternal gratitude for her assistance in making choices that help her feel confident in herself.

She decides on a simple but elegant gown made out of fine woven fabric in the palest of seafoam green hues. The skirt is not too full but cut on the bias so it drapes and flows around Ingrid’s body, almost as if floating. As a final touch, she will wear the breastplate of her armor over the bodice.

~

When the stress of wedding preparations gets to be too much, Sylvain seeks out Ingrid’s eyes, communicating a silent question between them: _want to get out of here for a little bit?_

They walk hand in hand, Ingrid leading them to a spot near the manor where a copse of cedars provides some shade and a wind break for the fields. Sylvain remembers playing among the trees there as a child with her, and sometimes Felix. The warmth of the early autumn day hangs over the parched plains of Galatea where it will linger into the evening. He thinks wistfully of how it’s beginning to get chilly at dusk already in Fhirdiad. 

Out here in nature, everything is simpler. 

Sylvain smoothes out the dry grasses and pulls Ingrid down to sprawl amongst the cedars next to him. She crosses her arms behind her head and looks up at the sky. 

“This is nice,” she says. “I already feel less stressed.”

He hums in agreement. As maddening as all the discussions (often more like negotiations) about the upcoming wedding feel to him, he knows she’s dealing with so many expectations that he is not. Tearing his gaze from Ingrid, he looks up into the almost endless blue that is broken only by sparse high clouds drifting slowly overhead. He lets himself marvel at all the details he can see in the branches of the trees and in the wisps of clouds above. 

“You know,” Sylvain says, “there are some activities we could try to relieve stress.”

Ingrid snorts. “Oh?”

He rolls over, propping himself up above her before dipping his head to kiss her. She grips the fabric of his shirt and holds him down to kiss him back, bending her knee to slot between his thighs. Sylvain drops to one elbow, stretching out along her side and kissing along her jaw while he runs his fingers through blonde hair. 

Sylvain can feel Ingrid begin to relax. He focuses on each and every spot he knows will help her let go of the tension she’s holding. The soft susurration of the wind in the tall grass around them lulls them into a comfortable calm, if at least for this moment.

~

Dorothea groans at the latest knock on the bedroom door.

“What now?” she grumbles as she gets up from her seat next to Ingrid at the dressing table. She stalks away to find out who is bothering them this close to the ceremony.

Ingrid turns back to the mirror, checking that everything is in order one last time. She straightens the neckline of her dress and tugs the sleeves down before Dorothea comes back and places her hands on Ingrid’s shoulders.

“Who was it?” Ingrid asks.

“Sylvain,” Dorothea says as Ingrid stands up. “I told him he would be late if he didn’t get going. And so will we, actually, if we don’t start making our way now.”

She lets Dorothea lead the way down the steps and into the courtyard near the manor’s small chapel. Ingrid’s father is waiting in his finest clothes. 

“My daughter,” he says as he gathers her into his arms for a hug. “If only your mother could see you today.” He steps back, his hazel eyes glistening, before holding out his arm. Ingrid swallows, staying strong for him as she links her arm in his.

The world narrows down to only the wedding party as she enters the chapel with her father. Sylvain stands between Felix and Dorothea, in front of Byleth. They step into the aisle as he turns away from Dorothea to look up when Felix elbows him. Sylvain’s mouth falls open and he stands up to his full height.

As they walk down the aisle and approach him, Ingrid can see that he is crying. 

Felix silently places his hand on Sylvain’s back as the tears roll down his face. Sylvain glances to his friend and smiles. Sylvain grins at her, before pulling off his glasses. His eyes are bright, like a beam of sunlight through amber. 

“This is why I wanted to see you before,” he says, pausing to wipe the lenses on his shirt, then sliding them back on, “so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in front of everyone.”

“Sylvain, you didn’t make a fool of yourself,” Ingrid says. She blinks away her own tears as they threaten to spill over. He swipes the one tear that slides out off her cheek with his thumb. 

Byleth steps forward and clears her throat softly.

~

Sylvain and Ingrid grasp one another’s right hands, and over them Byleth drapes a length of white cloth, with finely embroidered green vines and tiny dark red flowers.

She looks to Sylvain first. He wipes the tears still shining on his face with his hand, and takes a breath. 

“I, Sylvain, take you, Ingrid, as my wife, with your faults and your strengths, as I offer myself to you with my faults and strengths, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better and for worse, bound in everlasting love until we are parted by death.,” he says the vows as agreed, a concession to tradition and family expectations. 

The first half of the cloth is wound loosely over their joined hands. Byleth turns to look toward Ingrid.

Then Sylvain keeps going, veering off script. “Ingrid,” he says, “I know the past year hasn’t been a storybook tale, like all the ones you used to read over and over when we were younger, but—”

“That’s not what I—” Ingrid interjects, stops and tries again, “I know that’s not what real life is like.”

“I know,” he says, his smile spreading across his whole face, all the way to his eyes where the corners crinkle, “but I also wanted to tell you that you live up to every ideal in those stories. You are my knight in shining armor.”

“And you are mine,” Ingrid whispers, “sincerest of knights.” She squeezes his hand before going on, “I, Ingrid, take you, Sylvain, as my husband, with your faults and your strengths, as I offer myself to you with my faults and strengths, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better and for worse, bound in everlasting love until we are parted by death.”

Byleth wraps the other half of the cloth over the other. 

“The rings,” she says, nodding to Felix and Dorothea, who each place a plain silver ring into Sylvain and Ingrid’s free hands. With a little fumbling, they push the tips of their fingers into the rings, and then slide them simultaneously on. 

Byleth picks up the two ends of the length of fabric and ties a square knot. 

“You may now kiss,” she says, sounding distant to Ingrid as Sylvain leans toward her. Ingrid cups Sylvain’s jaw in her palm and closes her eyes as he captures her mouth in his.

~

Sylvain opens his eyes as his lips part from Ingrid’s. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you.” They slip their hands from the cloth together and turn toward the aisle. 

Annette is in the front row, crying more than Sylvain was before the vows. Sylvain’s gaze falls on Mercedes beside her, and then Dedue beside her as they pass. He looks back at Ingrid and beyond her he sees Ashe, who has traveled with Petra from Brigid for the wedding. Ashe gives him a thumbs up. 

Toward the back, as usual trying not to draw attention, Dimitri sits alone. He stands as they approach the end of the aisle, wincing as the people around him stand as well. “Congratulations,” he says, before hugging both of them a little too tightly. “Now go, get out of here and take a moment to breathe.”

Dimitri gives them each a gentle push out the door and Sylvain emerges blinking into the courtyard. Everything is drenched in golden sunlight, and it falls softly on Ingrid like a veil over her pale hair. 

The reception will start soon, but for now, they can steal some time alone together. Ingrid must have the same idea, because she pulls his hand where they are still holding tight and pulls him over to a secluded area of the gardens and into an alcove. 

“This is beautiful,” Sylvain says as he runs his fingers over her dress and silver armor. “You’re beautiful.”

“You are too,” Ingrid says. She brushes her fingers against his cheek and reaches up to smooth the hair that always sticks up behind his ear. “It’s funny, I don’t feel any different, really,” she says. 

He hears their guests spilling out of the chapel and milling around in the courtyard, making their way to the hall inside the manor where they are supposed to receive them. 

“That’s because all we did today was formalize our feelings, for everyone else’s benefit,” Sylvain says, taking her hand again. “Not that it’s unimportant! But we’ve already made our promises to each other.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ingrid says. She peeks around the corner at the crowd and then tugs again on his hand. “Here, we can go through the house and get there faster.” She leads him inside and through a room, then down a hallway. Stopping at the closed door she says, “Ready?” 

“More ready than I’ve probably ever been,” Sylvain says.

~

For once Ingrid is not the first one to wake.

The morning after their wedding she rubs her eyes, barely believing what she sees: Sylvain is up already, writing at the desk in the guest room they had been put in during their stay in Galatea for the wedding. She catches him in a moment of thought, upturned face toward the window.

“What time is it?” she asks, and he looks over at her with a lopsided grin.

“Sometime in the middle of the morning,” Sylvain says. He turns in his chair and slings one arm over the back. “Sorry I wasn’t there when you woke. You just looked so comfortable.”

Ingrid is thankful to be able to sleep in. The tiredness has built over the past weeks and caught up with her, and they had been up into the early hours. 

“Have you been up long?” 

“Not too long, but I opened my eyes and knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep again.” Sylvain stands and moves to the bed to sit beside her. “I couldn’t stop thinking about Dimitri’s toast last night.”

The toast had been the culmination of the reception. A toast from the King! Everyone was finishing the last of dinner, most of them several drinks in, and had already heard several lighthearted toasts (most of them poking fun and at Sylvain’s expense) at that point of the evening. So when Dimitri clinked his glass and cleared his throat, nobody was expecting the overly heartfelt speech. 

_“Sylvain and Ingrid have a long history. After all, we’ve all known each other since we were children.”_ Dimitri had paused here to gesture to the four of them. Felix was even openly smiling. _“But with so much in their past, their future holds much more. We have all been delighted to watch their friendship grow into more over the years, as they finally realized their deep love for one another to the fullest. I look forward to watching them grow together, and seeing the story of their lives unfold.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This project has been a wonderful challenge, and so so rewarding. Thank you to everyone who has been following along!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter! [@sweetbun_trio](https://twitter.com/sweetbun_trio)


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